He claimed her, not as a king claims a kingdom, or a general claims a victory, but as the ocean claims the sands, like bees claim the flowers, like it was the most natural thing.
Like it was what he was created to do.
38
SHE THOUGHT SHE COULD FEEL IT in the way he avoided her gaze just a touch longer, in the way his hand lingered on hers before he pulled away, lost in his own thoughts. She had convinced herself, with the newness of routine, it was simply the strain of what lie ahead, the unknown that was lurking in the corner.
It had been so long since they had justbeen. Penelope knew the looming threats of the underworld still hung over their heads, but there were things that were more… immediate.
There were whispers of a gathering, murmurs of an upset that someone was leading quietly. Whoever had been organizing did not want to be known.
Not yet.
She would find out. She had to.
But as she stole another glance at Odysseus across the room, the same thought gnawed at her… what was he was hiding from her?
“My queen,” he mused from the other side of the table, drawing her out of her thoughts, “If you stare at me much harder, I’m afraid you’ll wear holes in my tunic.” He set his glassdown, tilting his head as he studied her. “What bothers you, heart?”
Penelope felt heat rising over her cheeks. She had been so caught up in her thoughts; she hadn’t realized she had been staring. “Apologies, my king,” she said, rising from her spot. Odysseus crooked a finger, beckoning her over.
While it did very little to mitigate the flush on her face, she stepped closer to him. Quickly, he snatched her off of her feet, pulling her into his chair with him. She swatted him on the arm halfheartedly, a smile already replacing the worry that had been etched on her brow.
“Very improper,” she said, trying to squirm out of his grip. His arm around her waist had no give. “What if your son walks through those doors?”
“Then he will know that he was born of a passionate affair between mother and father. Very few sons are so lucky.” He kissed her temple, turning her face to meet his gaze. “Now, wife, tell me what troubles you this morning.”
For a moment, she considered laying it all out in front of him, her fears, his distance, the worries that weighed on her soul. But his eyes sparkled in the morning sun, and she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t.
“I… I am worried about the hum of dissent that seems to echo around Ithaca,” she said finally, allowing herself to relax into his arms. He tucked her head underneath his chin, his hand stroking her arm.
“We will handle it, my queen. Whatever comes, whatever storms, we weather them together.” His voice was so sure, his words were so confident that she couldn’t help but believe him.
They could have sat there for hours, tangled up in each other, and Penelope wouldn’t have known. Time stopped when they were together. He encapsulated her so wholly that it was so easy to forget about the burdens she carried, the burdens she hid.
When the door to the room slammed open, it startled them both. “Mother, Father.” Telemachus panted from the opening. She was on her feet in an instant, rushing over to her son. With a hand on his cheek, she could feel the way he shook.
“What is it, my son?” Odysseus asked, stepping next to them. He settled a hand on Telemachus’ shoulder, the other on the small of Penelope’s back.
“Families, the suitor’s families,” he breathed, his eyes locked on Penelope’s. “They’re organizing in the courtyard.”
“Take us.” Her husband said, firm. Penelope didn’t miss the way his body went tense, or how the hand that had anchored her was now reaching for his sword. Her son’s eyes left hers, turning to face his father.
As Odysseus strapped his sword to his waist, the two men exchanged something, silently. She saw the way their heads jerked, eyes narrowing. The unease of being left out of that unspoken interaction set her on edge.
Penelope’s heartbeat was pounding in her ears by the time they reached the courtyard. A multitude of men, enraged and shouting, stood in their space, the room filled with a tension that threatened to boil over. Their faces were red, brandishing weapons as they bellowed over one another.
The king grabbed her arm, pulling her close. He dropped his mouth to her ear and muttered, “You stay near me, you don’t wander.” His words were exacting, not that she would have argued otherwise. His hand squeezed her arm gently, as if he was grounding himself.
Penelope took her free hand and put it over his, trying to hide the way she trembled. “By your side, highness.” She answered softly, swallowing her fear.
“The king!” A voice cried, and the room went silent. The mass of people turned to find them. Each of their faces carried utter loathing.
“Let him speak.” A second, solid voice rang out, stepping into the opening before them. Eupeithes. She would recognize him anywhere. He paid his son many a visit over the last decade, a son she would not soon forget. It was no wonder that Antinous was as vile as he was.
He always found a way to linger, a way to stay close to her. Eyes straying below her face, an arrogant grin plastered across his lips. “Oh queenie,” he drawled, gripping her chin in his hand.
His hold on her was tight, fingers digging into her skin. “Come on, Nel.” Her eyes were slits, doing little to keep the disdain off of her face. “Why don’t you show me that bed the old king was so proud of?”
